


a girl and her dog (down the road going nowhere)

by Riana1



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Gen, Mythical Beings & Creatures, it is a bloody dog park after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riana1/pseuds/Riana1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the honeycakes that did it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a girl and her dog (down the road going nowhere)

**Author's Note:**

> I have not even listen to the podcasts but tumblr ate my soul until creativity welled up and bled out of me. If you spot the mythological references I will write you a drabble of your choice.
> 
> So Dana in the Dog Park.

 

 

 

It was the honeycakes that did it.

Josie pressed a bag of them into your hand with a bottle of water on the way to work (you mumbled your thanks and took off your mind going iamlatelatelate and you barely filed away Josie telling you her friends mention you would need to keep your strength up later-you regret that now).

The last bar on your phone has lasted hours (days, months, centuries- the scout stories pull up out of memory like snatches of a top 40 song you never knew but can’t forget) and tweeting all your reports to Cecil keep you sane. You get hungry and try to ration out the honeycakes and water, but after stopping to sit in the grass, you notice the water bottle is still half full and the bag has as many honeycakes as when you got to the station, despite the various sticky hands that wheedled their way into your breakfast.

So you feast.

You grab the honeycakes by the fistful and chow down in a manner that would have delighted your heathen little brother and horrify your mother. The cakes are light and fluffy and hint with the honey (and fill with a sleepy sense of home, your jadda murmering behind your ear has she tucks your khimār in close) and the high pitch whine hits your ears before the shadow falls next to you on the tall grass.

You don’t move, only flick your eyes to corner (and count your weapons on hand: your phone, your words, and the sharp tip fountain pin in your front pocket- you can gorge out a throat with it, even a copy of your own). There is a shaggy shadow four feet to your left, fire-gold eyes, glistening fangs, and making the same begging noise your neighbors’ Pomeranian does under the dinner table.

You don’t even think, only grab a fist of honeycakes and call out ‘here boy, here pup,’ and throw the honeycakes to the trembling black mass. The fangs snicker snack the honeycakes down and the burning eyes stare at you. You reach a hand at the shuddering darkness (a dog you decide it is a dog park after all) and—

You open your eyes when the feel of wet, raw liver presses eagerly at your palm. You can’t help yourself, you pull the shaggy mess of shadow towards you and croon ‘good puppy, puppy, puppy’ into the warm messy fur. You can feel the rhythmic thud, thud of the wildly wagging tail on the matted grass (you can feel it matching with your heartbeat in near synch).

Sloppy kisses over your exposed face and you laugh out loud. The dog covers your lap and spills over, a wiggling mass of black fur and warm gold eyes and you scratch at the area around his ears (not that you can really tell, you are about ninety percent sure the ears are above the eyes but the definitions of your dog are a bit smudged).

Your dog. You a pull another honeycake out of the bag and feed to your dog, trying out various names out loud. He ignores everything but puppy, sweet puppy, lucky puppy- no names, only adjectives until you end up rhyme squashing puppy-ducky-shucky and his oscillating tail almost knocks your phone to the ground.

Shucky. Shuck. Shuck. The gleam of gold and grinning fangs and wet, red tongue in your face appears to be an indentation of positive identification you decide.

You tweet to Cecil about your new dog and then lay back on the tall grass and close your eyes to the overcast sky. You curl your fingers into the soft pelt at the side and rest.

To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring—it is peace. You can chronicle the wilds of the Dog Park later (if there is a later, you are ninety-five percent sure that time is linear here even if the flow is more fucked up than your last hair cut from Telly), but… you never finish the thought.

(A black eyed dog he knew my name)


End file.
